


A Sense of the World

by andiownyousomuch



Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: Arisasaweek2015, M/M, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 20:20:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5429501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andiownyousomuch/pseuds/andiownyousomuch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What’s it like outside, Arima-san?”</p>
<p>“It’s cold,” Arima simply says. “Snowy. The railways are closed today.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sense of the World

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Arisasaweek2015, Day 1 - First snowfall / Winter. Set on the timeskip between TG and TG:re.

Sight: everything is dark. With the bandages embracing his eyes, it doesn’t matter whether they are open or not; he can only rely on his other senses to have a grasp of his surroundings.

 

Taste: dry air, since he’s fed through injections and, before that, tubes. Dry mouth and dry words, because that wouldn’t be different, even if he had a choice.

 

Smell: traces of a sterile and antiseptic scent, slightly nauseating. Sometimes, when he wakes up in sweat, out of a nightmare, and he can almost savor, too, the disturbing perfume of blood and rain. It never quite vanishes.

 

Touch: once, he’d walked around the whole room, following the walls with his hands. It’s a small room, with no windows, and a single door.

 

And then there’s hearing:

 

Almost inaudible steps coming to his door, breaking the lonely silence of his bedroom. A soft knock. Then, a quiet voice, calling him, “Haise.”

 

Haise’s lips quirk. “Arima-san,” he says, and so it begins.

 

-

 

Besides the medical team, Arima is the only visit he gets. Once in a while, the man brings to him a book, even though Haise still can’t read them. _When you get the bandages removed_ , Arima’d said, _you can start with these ones_. Haise’d appreciated the thought, tracing the covers of the books with his fingers, smiling when he stumbled at embossed letters, so he could know, beforehand, the title and the author of the book.

 

Sometimes, Arima even reads to him: some stories, a few poems. Arima’s voice is steady and serene, made more of silence than words. He’d dismissed Haise’s worries with a simple _this doesn’t bother me at all, Haise_ , returning to the page where they were, and Haise’d relented.

 

They talk a little. _Good morning, afternoon, night, how are you, are your injuries okay,_ and _what do you think about this book?_ But one of Haise’s favorite subjects is: the weather.

 

It’s a silly thing. But his mind is a land without past, haunted by nightmares-maybe-memories, and Haise thinks that at least, if he recalls how it is the world outside this bedroom, maybe he could find an answer, a way back to his past. So Haise listens to Arima’s short reports of the weather, and imagines.

 

-

 

“What’s it like outside, Arima-san?”

 

“It’s cold,” Arima simply says. “Snowy. The railways are closed today.”

 

“Thank you,” Haise mumbles, as he sees, in the back of his mind: streets covered in fluffy white. The winter wind howling and kissing red people’s cheeks. Walking on clouds. Fallen angels on the ground. Footprints left behind. Seeing another’s breath. “I wish I could see it. The snow,” he whispers, more to himself than to the man by his side.

 

-

 

“I have something for you,” Arima says, a few days later, as he sits by Haise’s bedside.

 

“A book?” Haise guesses, the corner of his lips already curving upwards at the thought.

 

“No,” Arima says, quietly. “Give me your hand.”

 

Haise does. Arima takes Haise’s hand in his own, and Haise shivers at the contact. _It’s cold. It’s--_

 

“Snow,” Haise says, the freezing sensation and the delight running down his skin, a piece of winter in his palm.

 

“This is the weather today.”

 

Although his vision is gone for now, he’s learned to perceive some emotions that Arima, occasionally, would let on: right now, there’s a tone of a silent satisfaction in Arima’s voice.

 

Haise smiles. “Thank you, Arima-san.”

 

Arima watches Haise, who now examines his gift, attentively. The touch of the snow is soft, a little moist and numb, making his skin dormant, like a lullaby – but Haise’s never felt so alive, ever since he’d woken up. He lowers his head, as he brings his hands closer to his face; Haise does not drink the snow, but wets his lips, the snow’s kiss making a smile surfacing on his mouth.

 

A small comfort and Arima’s constant company. In his hands, in his chest, the snow is melting.

 


End file.
